


blurring the lines

by kwritten



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/F, The Key
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-26
Updated: 2014-01-15
Packaged: 2017-12-21 11:08:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/899581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kwritten/pseuds/kwritten
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU- Tara doesn't die in "Seeing Red"; use of Key-canon</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It could’ve gone any other way.  
  
There’s a moment of clarity when she pushes back the hair away from her face, wishing she could do the same with her memories, tuck them away where they no longer matter; a moment when she feels how different it could be.  
  
 _“This is my friend, Tara.”_  
  
 _“Hi! It’s so great to meet you!”_  
  
 _And their gentle handshake should match the girl’s soft smile, but it throws them both against the wall and she’s never felt so flushed from a gentle touch but there it is and that’s all there ever was._  
  
You don’t notice at first, what living with a Key can do to your mind. Especially since she’s never really had time to stop and notice the blurring edges, the small flashes in the corner of her eye. There was always a battle, a war, a mouth to feed, a wall to fix, a meeting to plan, an ass or two to kiss or kick or kill. In the middle of war when there is no time for sleep and your fifth cup of coffee no longer has any flavor and the buzzing at the edge of your brain is the pain and the restlessness and anxiety, action is all there is or ever was and thoughts only propel you forward and forward and forward because looking back can get you killed.   
  
It’s only in the stillness that the Slayer is never really supposed to know (that makes her crawl the walls at night and they sometimes find her at three in the morning organizing the dvd’s by director’s last name with bloodshot eyes because now she is a warrior without a war) that the buzzing takes shape and that blurring in her vision holds the Keys to a life not-lived.   
  
One where the girl in her bed belongs to someone else, where that shy smile is long since dead, and the mourning can’t even hit her because it is a bad dream and then there is a warm hand in hers and soft hair tickling her shoulder and that isn’t real.  
  
Is it?  
  
 _Promise me._  
  
 _What?_  
  
 _Promise that you’ll always be mine._  
  
 _I can’t do that._  
  
 _Why not?_  
  
 _Because some day you’re going to walk into battle with my heart and I’ll never stop waiting._


	2. darkness and light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Buffy's memories continue to slide between realities and Tara searches for a cure

Sometimes there is darkness.  
  
And.  
(Full-stop.)  
  
Sometimes there is light.  
 _  
Mostly there is darkness and light all at once and it is blinding and intoxicating and it kills and it baptizes and it is the mouth of hell but it already spit them out once so let's just stand here and fight and laugh into the face of it because why not?_  
  
Sometimes there are memories that don't belong.  
  
Sometimes there is clarity.  
  
  
  
(Full-stop.)  
  
Begin again.  
 _  
_Sometimes there are memories of a life alone in a big house with a mother that smiles and frowns and cries and laughs and begs and shouts and raises an ax because that's what mothers do but there are only two and there are less shadows only more shadows and the floorboards creak when no one is there as if anticipating a different life but these are the memories and she feels them, empty.  
  
Sometimes there are memories with a man's smiling face and he kisses her but he doesn't try to kill her (that's new) and everything is the same and no one is missing but at night the man wraps his arms around her and she is restless and can't feel them and that is what is wrong so she throws herself into the night and the clarity is that something is still missing even if no one is missing.  
  
  
  
Mostly there is clarity,  
  
Mostly there is  _her_ crooked smile over Dawn's burned pancakes and  _oh sweetie these are great!_  with no sarcasm because we don't do sarcasm here there's no room for it because there's softball practice  scooby meetings  track practice  sleepovers  science fairs  slaying  staying up nights on the porch fingers intertwined just to hear the sun wake the world up.  
  
  
  
She fusses because something is wrong and there are worry lines and Buffy reaches up to touch them and she loves that she can reach up to that face but still feel stronger without feeling guilty or like she should apologize for being so small and so strong and the tall one is supposed to be strong but they are both strong and there's steel in that crooked smile you just can't feel it with your hands it's all in the heart and they fit and she fits and she's not too much and she's not too little she's just right she's enough and she smiles and shrugs because there's nothing wrong  _everything is just right and that's wrong_  there's just nothing to slay.  
  
She stays up late and is at the kitchen table with books and candles for light which makes Buffy laugh in the doorway after slaying and she wakes up Dawn and they have midnight cocoa and cookies and no one mentions Dawn's perfect eyeliner or dancing boots and no one mentions the bags under her eyes or the manic edge to Buffy's laugh because it's midnight cocoa time but she stays there and it's research mode and no one stops pretending it's just another scooby task.  
  
  
  
 _  
_Sometimes Buffy watches her dance with a girl with red hair and a too-bright smile and they sway and look happy and Buffy isn't allowed to touch and she cries out and screams and screams and no one can hear her because she's not supposed to see this this isn't her world only it's someone's world and she doesn't like it, it's not supposed to be this way because this world ends in blood and hers can't. _  
_  
It can't.  
  
  
 _This is borrowed time. You'll leave me.  
_  
 _Why would I leave you?  
  
Because you don't belong to me.  
  
Says who?  
  
Says the other world._  
  
  
  
  
She stops sleeping altogether and then everyone notices and Willow is called in from Oxford and Fred is put on speaker phone and the conclusion is vacation and Buffy is ecstatic (when do Slayers get vacations?) and Dawn types up several itineraries and packs extra sunscreen and the bus never knew what hit them and they are happy and their fingers are all curled up inside each other and she gets a tan and Buffy's cheeks hurt from smiling.  
  
  
Buffy doesn't sleep much now that the Hellmouth is closed and the slaying is so sparse and there's no good demon activity anymore and so she picks up hobbies and the floors are littered with her discarded projects and paints and yarns and bits of wood and piles of stickers (hobbies are so expensive let's not have them anymore) but the emptiness never fades and she slips more easily the less there is to do and worries she may get caught there.  
  
  
Because Slayers are built for action and for war and without war there is nothing but the vastness of the mind.  
  
No one considered the mind of a Slayer because the war isn't supposed to end.  
  
  
  
 _Am I dead there?  
  
Sometimes. Mostly... Yes.  
  
Do you love me there.  
  
You belong to someone else.  
  
Did you mourn me there.  
  
I mourn you every day.  
  
I'm right here.  
  
Not always._  
  
  
  
  
They know the answer within short order and it's not in a book and that's the trouble because the answer is nearing seventeen and the captain of the softball team and has a track scholarship in the wings and probably won't be Prom Queen but she'll have a nice time and there'll be a limo and she's talking about a nice dress and none of her friends have been eaten in a while and here she's not best friends with a vampire and here she has a nice, steady girlfriend with dark hair and thin lips and steady hands and there she was alone and here her hair is shorter but there she cried more and they know the answer but they don't share it because there's time yet to ruin a life with truths.  
  
  
They know the question and the question burnt nutella into the waffle iron again this morning but the answer is nothing they can face so they pretend they don't know.  
  
  
And Buffy keeps slipping and the lines keep blurring and they keep holding on tight.  
  
  
  
 _I met your family there once._  
  
You are my family.  
  
That's not how it always goes.  
  
But that's how it always ends.


	3. faces in the mirror

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dawn's chapter: mirrors don't tell you everything
> 
> (response to prompt: "Dawn: you were built to destroy, you never can belong")

Dawn Summers likes to look at herself in the mirror.

There’s a tiny bit of space between the steam clearing and someone knocking on the door. She takes that bit of time to really look deeply into her own face.

She remembers watching Buffy stare at herself in the mirror for hours. Once it wasn’t really Buffy.

Now it’s mostly Buffy.

She wonders if she’d know if that wasn’t her in the mirror one morning.

 

She looks at her face. Sometimes there’s nothing there but shapes and colors.

Mostly colors. (If she’s being honest.)  
(Dawn is so rarely able to be honest.)

 

She gets lost in the brown of her hair.

Staring into the abyss of her dark hair she can almost feel it.

It reminds her of the dark brown dirt on a softball field. The musky scent of wet grass under a hot sun. The biting chafe of dirt riding up her thigh as she slides into first base. The soft-hard muscles of her team collapsing on her in a heap. The feel of the smooth ball and rough stitching taking up her whole hand. The sound of the team’s voices muddled and muffled by the world.

It reminds her of Allison’s eyes and hair. It reminds her of Allison’s hair curling around and through her fingers. It reminds her of tears pooling up in those dark eyes. It reminds her of moonlight. Of starlight. Of promises. Whispering sweet nothings. Stolen glances in the halls. Words without words.

It reminds her of blood. Which isn’t all that odd. Considering. Everything reminds her of blood. Her brown hair reminds her of dried blood. Her hair is alive and vibrant. She can’t make it stop moving. She cut it off in a rage one day. Her tears fell alongside locks of hair. She smiled. Sitting in a heap of brown. Like the brown stains on a dress that wasn’t hers. That may or may not exist. It sits under her bed anyway.

 

She remembers a night on a tower.

She remembers bleeding.

She remembers crying.

There’s never any pain. (Sometimes she tests her body. She has scars where no one can see. Small cuts. Just to prove that blood can hurt.)

(It doesn’t.)

She can’t remember a time that was full of feeling.

She clings to the earth. As if it might spin too fast and she will be flung off. Like a pest on a windshield.

Dawn Summers loves the way things feel. In her hand. Pressed against her skin.

It’s hard to feel solid.

When the world is spinning and flashing.

 

(She stops there.)  
(Contemplating hair is enough.)  
(Time for breakfast. Time for school. Time for practice. Time for scooby research. Time for make-outs.)  
(Time for life.)  
(Living is what she does now. Didn’t you hear?)

 

Dawn Summers likes to look at herself in the mirror.  
She likes to pretend that she can feel things the way others can.

She watches her sister cry. She knows how to make the motion. The tightness in her chest never comes.

She feels in action.  
She feels the dirt on her legs.  
She feels Allison’s skin beneath her fingertips.  
She feels cold breezes.  
She feels the sun on her face.  
She feels the sharp knife on her skin.

She doesn’t feel blood.

She thinks she’s supposed to.

Sometimes she’ll press her fingers to her throat. She likes to run faster than yesterday. She likes to find her blood. In that moment when her head pounds. In those seconds before her muscles begin to ache. There in her throat. Under her jaw.

That’s where her blood is.

She can feel it then.

Her hands pressed against her skin.

(She likes to press her hand against Allison’s heart. When they are naked and panting. When she’s high on skin and moisture. When her cheeks are flushed with blood she can’t feel. She likes to rest her cheek against Allison’s heartbeat. Likes to count the beats. Likes to close her eyes and see it pumping through blue under the skin and red in the air. Allison teases her. She’s not a vampire. That’s not the fear. The fear is that it’ll all slip away. The blood keeps it real. Or that’s what experience tells her.)

 

She pretends not to love the feel of a blade against her skin.

(She likes to watch it run down her leg in the shower. Watch the red flow down the tan lines of her legs.)

She stares at the red and wonders about that dress that shouldn’t exist sitting under her bed. Tucked away from the world. Like her scars. Like her long hair in a plastic bag in the back of a drawer. She never felt the need to explain that.

How do you explain anything.  
How does anyone explain everything.

Dawn Summers likes to stare at herself in the mirror.  
But only for a few moments.

And afterwards she shrugs. Saunters out the door wrapped in a towel. Shivers into the goosebumps that rise on her skin. Tara likes to keep the air conditioner on. She never really adjusted to life in Southern California. Dawn doesn’t mind. She likes that daily reminder that her body is still intact.

Even if it is slipping further from her mind every day.

 

Someday she won’t feel the grass tickling her legs. When she stretches in the field before a game.

She thinks maybe she won’t even notice when that happens.

She thinks that will be the day when they lose Buffy for good.

 

Dawn Summers likes to stare at herself in the mirror. With a razor in her hand.

She likes to stare and wonder.

Will the world end if she lets her blood out for good?

Will she save her sister if the blood flows red until it is brown with decay?

Or will she only destroy everything?

 

(Isn’t that what she was built for anyway?)  
(Is she supposed to know that here?)

 

Dawn likes to look at herself in the mirror.

She focuses on the brown of her hair. She concentrates on the lines of her cheekbones. She zeroes in on the soft pink of her lips.

She sees lines and colors and shapes.

She avoids her eyes.

 

Eyes are dangerous.

Hers have flecks of green in them.

 

Dawn likes to stare at her face in the mirror.

With a blade in one hand. The other clutching a pink fluffy towel to her chest.

Dawn can’t meet her own eyes in the mirror.

She can sense the glints of green hovering there. Daring her. Teasing her.

 

One day the flash of green she longs for will overcome her.  
One day her hand won’t flinch.  
One day her sisters will swim in her blood -  
\- and maybe the world will lay in ruins at her feet -  
\- but she will be free and one and wild and gone and energy and power and there will be no fear and there will be no tears and she’ll feel everything and everything will be her and there will be nothing left but her and what she can feel and touch and taste and hear and the past won’t matter anymore and her secrets will disappear in the wind.

One day she’ll lose any desire she has fought to keep.  
One day what she was will be what she will be and what she is will be gone.

And she won’t regret it.

 

So she takes each day. One day at a time. One step at a time.

She plays with food.  
She rolls in the grass.  
She kisses her girlfriend.  
She hugs her sister.

She stretches into her skin and feels every bit of life that she can feel.

One moment at a time.

If she doesn’t.

That’s the very end.

Of everything.

 

(She fears that less than she’s willing to admit to even herself.)

 

Dawn Summers likes to look at her face in the mirror.  
To remind herself that she has one.

And that maybe even if the whole world isn’t worth saving (that’s not what she was made for) then at least this body and the people who love it are.

She saunters out the door.  
She takes each day one step at a time.

She keeps herself locked.

She reminds herself that she is Dawn Summers.  
 _Look - that’s your face in the mirror._


End file.
